


Let the Clowns Dream

by Cultivation



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Bittersweet Ending, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas Eve, Churches & Cathedrals, Clowns, Dark, Dark Bruce Wayne, Dubious Morality, Forbidden Love, Heavy Angst, Holidays, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Implied Sexual Content, Joker (DCU) Angst, Joker (DCU) Has Issues, M/M, Makeup, Male Homosexuality, Masks, Moral Dilemmas, Morality, Murder, Murderers, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Bruce Wayne, Parallels, Protective Bruce Wayne, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Symbolism, Winter, merry christmas?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cultivation/pseuds/Cultivation
Summary: There is a cathedral in Gotham, a contrasting and intimidating structure. Joker never uses it and Bruce likes to ignore it.But, on Christmas Eve, the world brings them both there and the results are catastrophic.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Let the Clowns Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all! Thanks for reading this fic!
> 
> I want to just make a quick side note and say that the version of Joker I use is kind of a mashup of several but I pinned nothing specific, other than appearance, to any kind of Joker. So, I hope that doesn’t confuse anyone too much.
> 
> Thanks to my editor and good friend [skittykitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittykitty) and I hope everyone enjoys the holidays this season! So now, without further ado...

There is a church — a _cathedral —_ in the grandest of scale and extravagance, in the middle of Gotham itself. Large stone arches reach just below the skyscrapers beside it. The stained window panes cast unique lights within; the religious imagery strikes powerfully with every soul who passes. Objectively, it is breathtaking.

Yet, it is a center point of the conflict within Gotham, a staple of the stark classism enacted upon the elite and the lower class. Protestors take to its steps in anger frequent spouts. Police throw tear gas, the protestors scurry away, and stay away from the sacred ground. But the cycle, after a few months, repeats itself. 

Bruce has never enjoyed its presence. Every time he passes it, he feels shivers travel down his spine and goosebumps arise all along his body. He doesn’t like the attention it brings or the truth it spells about his city. It reminds him of the Manor in ways he cannot begin to possibly explain. It is almost as if it watches him whenever he arrives, judging eyes casting doubt upon Bruce.

Joker uses this cathedral sparingly. Bruce never contests this, or ever even mentions his notice of its absence in Joker’s schemes, for fear of Joker using it to retaliate. Bruce refuses to acknowledge that he takes note of it, but, he does. He also takes note of the very few times he _has_ used it as well. Joker never does anything without a point.

When he reaches the last step, standing at the entrance of the cathedral, he feels the shiver and goosebumps once again. Bruce would call it deja vu if he hadn’t predicted it earlier. It is winter and the snow, cascading gently onto the stone behind him, is becoming a thicker blanket. The sight is both eerie and refreshing.

Bruce pauses at the door, afraid of what lies ahead. The smell that comes from within is one he knows all too well. It’s subtle, sharp, –– for now, from _here_ –– and metallic. Instinct and intuition, often one and the same nowadays, tell him to leave. He doesn’t; he has a duty to _his_ people, _his_ city. 

_Deja vu is a pitiless concept_ , he thinks. He steps forward, placing a gloved hand upon the door handle. The motion is slow and quiet as he enters, the door enclosing with an airtight seal. Inside, it’s almost colder than it is outside. There’s a reason for that, as usual.

The cathedral floor is decorated in blood, some dried and some fresh. A few bodies sit on the benches in the transept ahead. While he remains in the nave, Bruce looks around for any clues of Joker’s whereabouts. He knows he is hiding here, that couldn’t be much clearer now.

With a shuddering breath, Bruce moves forward. He observes the bodies placed on the benches silently, an emotionless expression holding tightly to Bruce’s features. There lies a woman, positioned to appear as if she is sitting up, wearing plain clothes and forever bearing a horrified countenance. Her face is painted with her own blood, forming a smile against her downturned lips.

_A trademark_ , Bruce ponders. _A damned symbol_. He cannot decide whether the parallel bothers him because it is immoral or because it is _true_. Either way, the thought escapes him. He looks around and finds a few other bodies on the benches, all identically placed. Then, he sees the priest at the pulpit. 

He wears the black robes and red sash, the way Bruce remembers it. His father and mother attended Sunday services available at the cathedral when they were offered. It feels like a lifetime ago –– because it _is_ –– and Bruce prefers to repress those types of memories from reemerging. 

The priest wears a Santa hat, a bloody grin facing Bruce from across the cathedral. The reminiscence is entirely inappropriate, for both the victims surrounding him and himself. He heads towards it, unfazed by its raised position. If anything it challenges him, beckons him to come closer.

He scans the body with precision, achieved throughout years of tedious practice. The man on the pulpit is less than holy. He knows this man, only vaguely. He is the Santa that works the corner between Hanson street and fifth. Where Wayne Enterprises is. He collects charity money –– and lots of it –– for foster homes and low-income families in need. 

_And he’s the priest_ , Bruce realizes. It is a quiet mockery, one designed just for Bruce. Joker has known for a while who he really is. It is mentioned only ever in passing. It is never directly thrown in his face. _Perhaps, he is bitter_ _this evening_. Bruce smirks for a moment then, it dies as rapidly as it came. He cannot smile, nor here or now, with Joker’s _actions_ surrounding him. 

He makes his way towards where the blood trails, by the right tower stairs. They lead him, like dog and chain, up the stained stone steps. The blood gets fresher as he ascends, the color gradually shifting from desaturated to blindingly contrasting. His footfalls do not make a single noise, even as he reaches the top of the seemingly never-ending tower. 

Here is where the priest is supposed to reside. There are two large orange-stained window panes, casting the chambers in a sickly aura. The room, Bruce imagines, would be neat if Joker hadn’t destroyed it completely. As is, it is in shambles. A bookshelf is knocked over, many scriptures and novella carelessly sprawled across the floor. The desk and chair are both flipped over and the mattress is torn from the frame haphazardly. It is typical of Joker to desecrate everything he touches.

_Just like––_ He refuses to finish that thought. The blood’s trail ends just behind a stone pillar, puddled up beneath a limp body, shrouded in early morning duskness. Bruce approaches it with ease. He no longer feels the tension, the _disgust_ , that accompanies such displays. Bruce can only feel the guilt at not feeling anything. He hopes that can be enough.

The priest, the _real_ one, has a carved face. From the corners of his lips to the edges of his cheeks, on both sides, his face is cut open. But, more jarringly, he is not dressed as a priest or as Santa; Bruce had not predicted this. But, he couldn’t say he is entirely surprised either. He is just being naive, a horrid habit that seems to fester as the years go on.

Joker dressed him like a _clown_. His face is painted white, with blue diamonds over his eyes and rosy cheeks. Similar to all the others, but not _quite_ , blood drips from the scars. The entire bottom half of the priest’s face and chin is covered in it, staining the creme victorian collar around his neck. His body dawns a brightly colored jumpsuit, polka-dotted and striped. The finishing touch is a blue and red, split down the middle, afro wig and oversized shoes.

Bruce suppresses an urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Instead, he leans down to remove the wig from his head and the collar from his neck with a cautious kind of gentleness. Then, he attempts to wipe away at the makeup covering his face. He uses his gloves at first and then pulls a cloth from his belt. It leaves the priest’s face unclear, makeup gone in some areas and patchy in others. 

_I want to fix you_ , he thinks harshly. _Why can’t I fix you? Why can’t I... save you?_ The thought causes even darker ideas to pop into focus. Moments of compromise come to mind, where he made the worst decision, for the sake of keeping _him_. He wants to go back, to fix _that_. But he knows, even if he could, he wouldn’t. The conflict of it all tears at him from the inside. 

In a place as holy as this one, Bruce quakes in fear at his own power. One little action changes the course, for _them_ , the people of Gotham. They are what should matter –– they _are_ –– yet… he cannot help but feel the piercing reluctance, presenting him alternatives that keep Joker alive. It is almost as if they are much more than human now. As if their roles have made them both all but numb to consequences, to life and its value. 

_No_ , Bruce redirects his thoughts. He cannot accept that way of hopeless existentialism. He cannot drown himself in his own wrongdoings. Bruce can’t go back, he can’t change a _goddamn_ thing about the past. Dwelling on it, as he does now, will only lead to more of those decisions. _To more forgiving, to more understanding_. He is violently afraid of understanding the Joker because, if he is purely honest with himself, he already–– 

“Bats.” Bruce can hear it faintly, by an echo coming from down below. He looks to the body of the priest, partially a clown and partially a man, with intensity. Bruce awaits to hear it again, to ensure he heard it correctly the first time. He doesn’t wish to engage him willingly; he _wants_ to and, therefore, he cannot. “Bats, I know you’re there.” That voice, so familiar and so close, _comforts_ Bruce. In the same stroke, it pains him.

The footsteps from the staircase echo too, growing louder with time. Bruce can feel the vibrations in his nerves, his breath becoming unsteady. His posture is stick-straight and his demeanor shifts to unreadable. He is tempted to hide behind the other pillar and surprise Joker, lunging at his thin frame and taking his life swiftly. But, his imagination never gets him very far. Bruce’s feet are stuck in place, immovable among the blood and the body. The footsteps stop and Joker is _here._

His silence is uncharacteristic. Bruce chances a glance in Joker’s direction, glad his white lenses obscure the glazed appearance his eyes are sure to have. Joker is well-dressed, a constant factor; a maroon colored suit, gelled back hair (cut just above the shoulder), and a painted face of diamonds and smiles cut his scrawny figure into an effectively intimidating _presence_. Bruce doesn’t have the words to describe how he feels when they’re together. They are too sensitive for his mind’s fragile state.

Bruce notices –– _lingers_ on –– Joker’s fixated eyes. He cannot take his gaze away from Bruce’s hands. Almost instinctively, he looks down at his hands. All over his gloves are the remnants of blood and makeup. He stares at them for a long time, in shock. Then, he hears the rumble of laughter arising in Joker; the sound alone fills the cathedral in its echo, a song he can never forget. At last, he lowers his hands, placing them at his sides, still yet tremoring within.

“Bats,” Joker greets. He walks towards him, with a stride to his step. He pauses, a few feet between them. His laughter continues unaffected. It doesn’t end until he has encircled Bruce several times. Bruce almost feels like prey. But, looking down at the priest, he knows the very notion he is _prey_ is foolish. “Bats, I heard you poking around here earlier but… I was still getting myself ready for you.” He stops abruptly, skewed by the pillar. Only Joker’s face is visible behind it.

“Joker,” Bruce speaks. “Why did you do this?” The question perplexes Joker and, for a few moments, he doesn’t answer at all. Eventually, his lips curls into a smile –– a _genuine_ one –– and he hums to himself. 

“I suppose ‘for fun’ isn’t an answer then?” Joker says sarcastically. He moves from behind the pillar, inching closer to Bruce. He sighs dramatically, ending with a bitter note. Joker’s blue irises seem to darken as the rising sunlight casts orange light through the stained panes. He clears his throat and continues. “The joke wouldn’t be funny if I told it to you, Bats.” One last look at the priest tells Bruce everything he needs to know.

“What is fun about this?” Bruce commands. The priest serves a distinct reminder of why he is even here in the first place. He can envision his parents, cold in the alleyway. He can relive the moment they are shot, one by one. He can see in stark clarity the puddle of crimson gathering beneath their bodies. All of it, as if it were yesterday. Bruce looks up from the priest to meet Joker’s eyes, a cold expression upon his features. “What is funny about death?”

Joker’s hands reach out to Bruce’s. The contact is jarring and, as such, startling. Bruce tries to hold onto his aggression for as long as possible. Joker takes one of Bruce’s gloved hands in his own and begins to rub off stains from them. He bargains with himself, anything to stop _this_ from happening. But, regardless, it goes on without interruption.

“Death is part of the performance, the craft. It isn’t the center point of the piece,” Joker says calmly. He pulls at the glove roughly, removing it from his suit and hand altogether. It falls to the ground, ricocheting droplets of blood to fling in every circular direction. Joker moves his attention to the other hand, taking the same time and care for it.

“Then,” Bruce whispers. His breath hitches, unable to exhale easily without expressing his true sentiments. “What _is_ the center point?” Joker cleans the glove with ease and, in the same instance, drops it into the puddle to be stained. It doesn’t bother him as it should. Nothing Joker has done in the past few minutes, has bothered him as it _should_. 

“A good artist never reveals his own interpretation”–– Joker releases his hands from Bruce’s and backs away a step –– “and you know that better than anyone, don’t you Batsy?” A wracking force of tension makes its course through Bruce’s body. He addresses the urge with no remorse, stifling it down for later. 

“Why tonight?” Bruce asks. He eliminates the desperation in his tone before it comes off his tongue. It’s a rhetorical question really. Bruce isn’t asking Joker though, even if it appears he is. Joker knows it, in the way he cocks his head to the side, sporting an irritated expression. 

“These questions aren’t going to help you,” Joker says. He steps further backward, stopping when he eyes the priest one more time. Typically, this is part where Joker would start laughing; typically, Bruce would be enraged. But Joker isn’t laughing and Bruce is motionless. “Why did you wipe off the––”

“Because,” Bruce interrupts. “I need to do the right thing, even if it’s…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He struggles to prove his own convoluted philosophy and Joker has all heard it before. Joker takes the responsibility as his own to finish Bruce’s statement.

“Pointless?” Joker offers. Bruce doesn’t confirm or deny it. He isn’t strong enough to lie or tell the truth. Joker grimaces, reaching up to tuck strands of hair behind his ear. “It is pointless to resist it. This, _us_.” He gestures towards the both of them. “We have a dance, dark knight, and that is all that matters. They don’t matter, they never have.”

Bruce’s throat feels dry. Air is stolen from his lungs and the room becomes claustrophobic, too small to keep Joker as far away as Bruce needs him to be. As if sensing this abrupt change, Joker steps back, closer to him. A nauseous feeling overcomes Bruce and he gains the strength, the animalistic _need_ , to back away from Joker. Joker follows him, a malicious grin spreading wide across his face.

“You’re afraid of it” –– Joker steps towards him as Bruce steps away –– “I can tell.” Bruce feels a wall behind him but doesn’t make any motion to turn. He lets Joker approach him methodically. Survival instincts fail him completely. “But what is there to be afraid of?” Bruce can feel his bones ache as Joker corners him. 

“Everything,” Bruce mumbles under his breath. Joker cackles, finally close enough to reach Bruce. He places his bony fingers between the top and bottom of his chin; he pulls Bruce down to hover millimeters away from touching. Joker leans into the crook of his shoulder and it all makes Bruce shiver. A rumble of soft laughter meets his ear first.

“Batsy, you’re nervous.” It doesn’t come as amusing to Bruce as it does to Joker. But, it isn’t but a few moments later that Joker says something much less amusing for both of them. “Don’t worry,” he speaks. He takes Bruce’s hand in his own; Joker places Bruce’s fingers over his wrist. He applies pressure and feels the pulse beat erratically beneath his fingertips. “So am I.”

Bruce feels an intense urge to push Joker away from him, to look at the body behind them and remember exactly _why_ he is actually here. He doesn’t do any of those things. He opts to stay put, to make the _wrong_ decision, yet again. Bruce doesn’t even attempt to explain it away. He knows why and it’s shameful. Joker hums once more and it suddenly becomes clear how close they really are.

“Joker,” Bruce warns. There is no venom behind it. Joker doesn’t pull away. Instead, he curls his fingers into Bruce’s and raises their conjoined hands. He smiles, the blood and makeup thinning on his face. Up close, Bruce can see his eyes and age lines much more clearly now. The small pores and the angular shapes that define his face. It’s utterly overwhelming.

“You must feel this,” whispers Joker. It isn’t a question and it instantly concerns Bruce. The tone, the mood, the atmosphere. None of it is Joker’s forte. None of it seems real. Bruce has gone far in the past, to protect Joker, but he has never done what they’re doing right now. “You feel it, right?” The concern is protective and he answers in the only way that he can answer.

“Yes,” says Bruce softly. He swears he can hear it echo throughout the cathedral. Joker’s face lights up with the response. Bruce can feel the smile against his shoulder. His grip around Bruce’s hand tightens and his foot begins to step atop Bruce’s. “What are you doing?”

“We’re dancing.” Joker starts to sway to an imaginary tune. Bruce can hear it too but his body is still halted by something. Joker closes his eyes and harshly twists his body around, still tightly holding Bruce’s hand. He stands in place, waiting for Bruce to move. “Come on, Bats.”

“I don’t––” Bruce starts but is unable to finish. He feels an intense rush of complex emotions run through him. He cannot begin to categorize them. Irony strikes him viciously. “I can’t—” Joker’s eyes flicker up to meet Bruce’s. “I can’t dance.”

“That’s not true, _Brucey_ darling,” Joker taunts. The name isn’t what scares Bruce; it is the way Joker knows he is lying and, for all intents and purposes, Bruce is lying because he doesn’t want to face memories. Flashes of his parents, arm in arm, laughing in the ballroom. That room is now filled with dust. “They must’ve taught you.”

_They did._

> _A moment of silence –– then, then! There she waltzes in. And his father comes from behind. Bruce’s eyes watch ever so intently at their dance. While he cannot predict where they will go, he knows that they’ll always stay together. Together, arm in arm, forever––_

Bruce swallows dryly, eyes wide. Joker twists back to face him, his eyes trapping Bruce. He wants to say something, to answer him. To do anything at all. But, he cannot find the will or the strength to move. The memory haunts him to his core, opening him up and carving out unseen insecurities. He knows what Joker will say. Not the words, the _sentiment_. Bruce knows what the sentiment will be.

“Bruce,” he speaks lowly. It catches his attention, away from the past. It is a jolt to the present that he isn’t quite ready for yet. His breathing is uncontrollable erratic. His body has a tremor that Joker seems to tighten his grip to in response. “We can dance here, with no eyes.” His tone is alluring and Bruce is almost entranced by it.

“I don’t have––” Bruce stumbles once more. Words do not come easily. He cannot speak the sentiment as Joker can. It isn’t natural for Bruce. He is never sure of anything he does for Joker and that unsureness traverses throughout his body and his brain. “I can’t do it––”

“You’re thinking of someone else,” Joker interrupts. “Don’t think about them. Don’t think about anyone. I told you, they don’t matter. No one does… no one, but _us_.” The look on his face is desperate and Bruce gets the feeling of finality. The current halts him and, for a moment, he seizes with the emotions that accompany it.

_I can’t let this be the last time, I can’t let this be the last time we’re together._ Then, another thought pops into his mind. The finality, if it proves true, of this moment is vital. Bruce is never one to disappoint anyone. But Joker, he is a different story entirely. _I can’t let him down,_ he thinks. _I can’t let him think I feel nothing._

Bruce tightens his grip around Joker’s fingers. Joker’s eyes have a demented sort of sparkle in them that only Bruce reads as intimate. He steps forward and Joker steps back, hands connected. They move with rhythm and it starts slow, each movement calculated to match the other. 

But with time, their dance grows in its pace. Each spin, each turn, and every step conjures a sense of increasing franticness. A need to be closer, to be everywhere with the other. The room becomes a barrier and the body becomes the audience. Then, Bruce steps in the puddle of blood and stops, Joker with him.

They heave in place for an endless period of time. Bruce steps back and Joker steps forward. Experimentally, Bruce steps forward and Joker, in response, steps back. In his darkened eyes, shaded with the orange light, Bruce can see his hesitation. Their hands are still conjoined and the touch is suddenly uncomfortably fond. 

“And you,” Bruce begins. “You are just as afraid as me.” Joker is silent, refusing to rebuke or agree with it. Bruce doesn’t really need him to answer; it isn’t a question. He steps forward, pulling Joker towards himself. His nerves are alight with the closeness of Joker, his clammy palms and thin fingers. His body is frail and fragile in his arms. “You don’t want to be attached.”

“Because it’ll be taken away,” Joker whispers. Bruce remains quiet, waiting for Joker to make any additional statement. It is a rare sight for either of them to be open –– _vulnerable_ –– with each other. It is even rarer for Joker to admit, even in the subtlest of ways, that he possesses emotions. He leans forward into Bruce, dangerously near his face. 

Then, as if it is nothing, Joker pulls away. But his hand still connects with Bruce’s, leading him to the mirror. All across the floor, Bruce can see Joker’s footprints of blood and he pretends not to notice. The mirror reflects them both in equally unflattering ways. 

Bruce can see the way his body has been growing more delicate. He has been eating less, much to Alfred’s displeasure. Bruce’s appetite and healthy way of maintaining this _lifestyle_ have slowly evaporated over time. His bad habits have taken over, in pursuit of focusing solely on his city. He thought it would make things better for Gotham; it only made things more complicated.

Joker is becoming thinner with age, bones jutting out at awkward places. His face is evident of their fighting, a somberness to his eyes. He looks tired now but does everything he can not to show it. The paint on his face is chipping with time and sweat, from the dancing. His suit has faded in vibrancy but still strikes fear with its mere presence.

“I don’t want you to go away, Bats.” Joker’s voice is quiet, almost soft, within the echoing walls. “Not when you’re like _this_.” He stares at Bruce’s reflection with a faint smile. It fades as Bruce draws nearer. Joker turns around to face him, placing his hands on his cowl and lifting it gently. 

It falls to the floor anticlimactically. Bruce feels exposed, even if no one knows they’re here. On Christmas Eve in Gotham, people either stay inside or go to the parade on the richer side of Gotham. Bruce never attends that parade and he never stays inside. He ventures that Joker is rather the same.

Joker reaches his hands up to Bruce’s face, admiring his skin and the dark bags beneath his eyes. Bruce’s hand, disconnected from Joker, rises up to meet back with the hand on his face. Joker’s fingertips graze his cheek in a childish manner, a kind of awe spread across his features. His hand takes Joker’s and returns it back to its place. With the other hand, Bruce pulls out the cloth.

“What are you doing?” Joker asks quietly. He almost seems frightened by the gesture. Bruce doesn’t say a word, going to the kitchenette, using the sink to dampen the cloth, and returning steadfastly. Joker, in all that time, doesn’t move an inch. He waits for Bruce patiently, both curious and unsure. Bruce pauses briefly when in front of Joker.

“Showing you something,” he says. Bruce places the cloth against Joker’s skin and begins to drag it gently alongside it. White, red, black, and blue all blend together on the cloth as Bruce continues to wipe it away. Beneath the makeup, Joker is revealed to be a different man entirely, one that only Bruce seems to see. 

He turns Joker around when he is finished. When he sees himself in the mirror, Joker almost shudders. It is clearly a sight he doesn’t like to see; he fidgets and scowls at the man without the makeup. But Bruce forces him to look and after a while of staring back fiercely at his reflections, he begins to answer his question. 

“I don’t want you to go away either,” whispers Bruce. “Not when you’re like _this_.” Joker hums then giggles. Bruce smirks from behind him. The vibration of the sound causes it to echo throughout the cathedral. It is a pleasant moment, for both of them. Bruce can forget and so can Joker. Blissful ignorance of what lies outside the cathedral.

“You have such a way with words,” says Joker slyly. He smirks and turns around to face Bruce. The cord of finality strikes again, this time a little more resounding impatience. This moment is not able to last forever. Bruce knows that better than Joker does. Deja vu hits Bruce hard, as a few minutes ago, they were in the same position.

_And he had stepped away_ , Bruce thinks. _Damn it._ He doesn’t –– he _can’t_ –– make a move like that. He can start and stop and go back. Bruce can’t pretend, not really. He can try but all it does is fester inside him over time. Then, it all comes to him in a blinding ray of light. _I’m not Batman here. He’s not–– he isn’t Joker._

He leans, ever so slightly. Bruce can practically _hear_ Joker’s pulse increase in speed. His heartbeat could be leaving behind an echo and Bruce really wouldn’t care. Joker seems to though, with the way his breath hitches and steps back. Bruce halts, waiting for him to tell him to stop. To tell him to do anything else. Joker raises his hand and places it on the back of Bruce’s neck.

“You’re testing me, aren’t you?” says Joker. Bruce smiles a little, as if it is a joke. But Joker isn’t laughing and the taste on Bruce’s tongue grows sour. The irony of it all is he isn’t testing Joker; he is testing himself, to see how far he will go. But Joker shouldn’t be involved in this. Not if this is the effect. Another Bruce, from a different time, would think that this is the cure. He would be wrong.

“No,” he says. The look he gives Bruce is searching, trying and failing to find another motive. Bruce chuckles and then goes into an ugly kind of laughter. Joker doesn’t move, watching in an unbreakable fascination, a silent watcher. “I wish I had the insight… I wish I could be that good at my job.” His voice doesn’t crack because it doesn’t have to.

Joker leans up and pressures Bruce’s neck down. His lips feel smooth against his, a jarring sensation managing to consume him whole. Bruce presses back into it. Joker lets Bruce place his hands on his hips. He hoists him up and backs him into the wall. The buzzing feeling of euphoria gets close to overcoming him. But, then––

> _He holds her close and then twirls her. If Bruce stares a little too long, he’ll begin to kiss her. And they look so in love. They like to stay touching, languid and long intervals of time passing in between. Bruce doesn’t like to watch for too long for he doesn’t quite understand it, their love; they’re just too perfect––_

_Love._ Bruce rests his forehead on Joker’s, panting. Joker stares at him, analyzing his every move. _His parents_ , he thinks. _They must be watching_ . _What do they think of me? Do they hate me? Do they understand it?_ The questions and self-loathing flood Bruce and threaten to drown him, to steal him away from this moment. 

“Bruce,” Joker says quietly. “What’s wrong?” He points Bruce’s chin in his own direction. He seems to revel in the honesty displayed in Bruce’s eyes. It has always been a weakness of his. Now, it proves to be the voice that has gotten him the one thing he was never supposed to have. He isn’t sure if it is bad or good.

_Death._ The body still sits in the room with them, festering as time passes. The thought alone makes Bruce shiver with regret, with _consciousness_. It doesn’t come with selflessness. _I can’t be here, not while doing this._ But down below, there is only more to be found. They can’t leave the cathedral yet, they have nowhere to go. 

“Location,” Bruce says. “I need somewhere… _smaller_.” Joker nods quickly and they pull apart. It is really only halfway, as Joker is still hanging onto his hand. He pulls Bruce to the stairs and, together, they descend. Joker is laughing as he goes down and Bruce suddenly feels dizzy with the pace of their descent. 

> _They spin underneath the chandelier and Bruce, for his life, cannot seem to close his eyes. This is the seventh time he has caught his parents in the act. Both of them have smiles planted across their faces, blurred with the movement. Bruce can hardly believe his eyes. He never wants to stop watching––_

They reach the end of the tower staircase and Bruce is jolted from his painful nostalgia. Joker twirls as he enters the area. Bruce is almost nauseous with the reminder of what Joker has done being thrown in his face. The sight of their bodies at the pulpit and in the benches causes Bruce to almost fall. Joker takes note of this.

“We’re not staying here,” he says softly. Then, he walks towards the confession booths behind the choral section. Bruce finds himself stumbling with Joker’s enthusiasm. Here, there are no bodies and no blood. It nearly seems peaceful. Bruce isn’t quite sure how Joker is planning to make this work. From an outsider’s view, the booths look too small.

But, Joker pulls back the curtain and motions his neck for Bruce to join him. Their hands are still intertwined, Joker pulls slightly at him to enter. Bruce does, with a heavy step. His first assumption is right; they are squeezed rather tightly inside of the booth. To the side, a gated veil masks the other side of the booth. Joker turns, pushing Bruce to sit down on the small mahogany bench. 

When he does, it becomes starkly obvious to Bruce that he has no way to escape what is about to happen. _Joker must have sensed my anxiousness_ , Bruce thinks. _He must have known what would happen when I saw the bodies_. He straddles Bruce, with the little space given, effectively choking him in all the right–– and _wrong_ –– ways. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” he whispers. Joker grazes the skin on Bruce’s ear. In the booth, Bruce cannot hear the echo of his words. Joker speaks quietly, as if anyone could be listening. Bruce appreciates the smallness of his words; they hold enough weight and he cannot imagine what they’d _feel_ like if Joker talked in his normal tone.

“Don’t let it be in vain.” Bruce isn’t entirely sure what he means by those words until Joker is all over him. His tongue, his body, and his warmth overwhelm Bruce. It has been too long since he has felt so strongly during intimate moments. Bruce chuckles to himself, a depressing sort of pity eating at him. Soon, it drowns in the fire that Joker erupts. 

_Don’t hurt me._

But, Joker can’t help it and it isn’t long before he does. In the end, he never really heard his pledge so he cannot say he didn’t expect it either. Yet, the very next year, they both return and do it all over again. Again and again. The cycle renewed and paused, for one night.

_Don’t leave me._

He goes to sleep in the cathedral, still atop Bruce in the booth. His body acts as a heat source. Bruce doesn’t quite sleep even though he comes close many times. But, he lets Joker rest until he awakens and finds the booth empty on Christmas Day. Yet, at the moment, Bruce doesn’t seem to want to move.

_Let the clown dream._

Then, he laughs and, eventually, he cries. But the laughter is somber in nature and soft enough to never be heard. It is a joke that no one with a working conscious would find funny anyway. He finds he no longer cares, sticky with the remnants of his latest irreparable transgression. The tears are silent and scarring. He almost falls asleep.

_Let the clowns dream._


End file.
